


Hilarious

by SoftObsidian74



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Community: hp_darkarts, Dark Magic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Implied necrophilia, Inferi, Multi, Oral Sex, POV Character of Color, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, implied threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:16:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoftObsidian74/pseuds/SoftObsidian74
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Fred died, a part of George died with him. Angelina found a way to bring back both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hilarious

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> This story was Alpha read by Emily Waters & Beta'd by Marianna_Merlo. Written for the 2013 hp_darkarts Imperio Fest at Live Journal, and inspired by the Robert Frost quote “If we couldn't laugh we would all go insane.”

  
**Day 9**

Patient Log

Name: Angelina Johnson  
Patient #34  
Age: 22 years  
Height: 5’9  
Weight: 162lbs  
Nationality: British  
Race/Ethnicity: Black  
Eye Colour: Brown  
Hair Color: Dark Brown  
Blood Status: Pure-blood  
Curse or spell-damage?: None apparent  
Diagnosis: Manic with signs of hysteria

Healer Notes: 

Patient #34 shows no sign of improvement. She continues to display signs of episodic hyper-mania and hysteria. The most consistent and jarring feature of these episodes is her incessant laughter. As noted previously, these episodes are nearly always preceded by spontaneous and startling displays of wandless magic. 

Most of the magic appears to be benign; usually in the form of some sort of prank aimed at staff members. Patient #34 always laughs after these occurrences. When asked why she is laughing, the patient only responds with more laughter. When she is not engaged in performing malicious magic, or laughter, she becomes aloof.

We will continue to administer potions, as she tends to respond well to Calming Draught and Dreamless Sleep Potion. However, these do not always work, and as remedies, they only offer temporary relief from her symptoms. 

We are developing a multi-systemic approach that will include therapy and exercise. This new regimen will begin on Monday. 

Supervising Healer: Chief Mind Healer, Alex Dandridge  
Date: Sunday, March 12th, 2000  
Time: 10:30am

*****  
 **Day 14**

Strapped to an oversized brown chair, fitted in faded denims and a jumper two sizes too large, a tall statuesque woman with a smooth, dark-chocolate complexion stared past the man observing her. 

The man told her to call him Dandridge, but she rarely called him anything, or spoke at all. 

Dandridge was easy on the eyes with his sculpted cheekbones, perfect nose, and expertly cut short brown hair. But his pretty blue eyes reminded her too much of other things, so she focused her attention to the ugly, honeydew-green painted wall behind him. 

A binding spell kept her fastened to the chair, her legs shoulder width apart. The last time she’d fallen into a fit of laughter, it knocked her to the floor. The image alone was funny enough to inspire new giggles, and when Dandridge’s quill levitated and tickled his face, she couldn’t contain it. Laughter bubbled up to the surface, ripping its way through her sore chest. 

Dandridge was asking her something, but she couldn’t hear a damn thing he was saying. She closed her eyes and shook her head, giving into the insanity of it once again.

*****  
 **Day 23**

“So, uh, how’s she doing?” George Weasley asked.

Dandridge folded his lips. “Pretty much the same, I’m afraid.”

George nodded. “She’ll come around. Just needs a bit of a break.”

“A break? From what?” Dandridge inquired, peering at the other man closely. 

It hadn’t escaped Dandridge’s attention that George’s former cheery demeanor had dimmed considerably since his last visit to the ward. New dark circles gave his eyes a hollowed look and he could stand to eat an extra meal or two. 

“Ah, nothing, just life, you know,” George said with a nervous chuckle, stuffing his hands into his pockets. 

“So when do you think she’ll be able to come home?” 

Healer Dandridge blinked. “Mr. Weasley, er, George, I’ll be frank−” 

George flashed a disarming smile. “Frank? I thought your name was Dandridge?”

Dandridge humoured the man with a small smile. “We can’t find any trace of injury, disease, or curses. She may be here for a very long time. Now, I hate to ask you this again, but are you sure you’ve told us everything?” 

“Yeah,” George said with shifty eyes. 

Dandridge sighed. “Very well. I’ll be sure to keep you updated.” 

George’s eyes fell to the floor. “Well, perhaps I did forget to tell you _one_ thing. We, uh−”

Both men jumped as the white porcelain soup bowl sitting next to Angelina’s bed whizzed by, just barely missing George’s head, and shattered against the wall. 

The colour drained from George’s face, but he chuckled anyway. “I, uh, better go. Left the shop unattended. Really have to get back now,” he stammered.

“George−”

“See you next time, eh? Take good care of ‘er for me!”

Before Dandridge could respond, George was gone and Angelina was writhing in her invisible bonds, laughing at the broken pieces of porcelain lying on the black linoleum floor with the wide-eyed amusement of a child. 

*****  
 **Day 31**

Everyone in the community group room of the Janus Thickey Ward of St Mungo’s stood frozen like statues in a museum. All eyes were glued to the pitcher of pumpkin juice floating high above the head of the Healing assistant on duty. 

A shriek pierced the silence like a pin popping a balloon as the pitcher tilted. 

Hysterical giggles echoed throughout the room. 

“Angelina!” bellowed the stout, blond-haired woman. “Think that’s funny, do you? Wand or no wand, I know you’re responsible! Apologise right now or else it’s off to solitary with you!” 

The Healing assistant made her way across the room as Angelina gasped for air, struggling to sober and gain composure. 

That is, until the woman’s foot slipped in the mess on the floor. 

Her arms flailed wildly as though she were trying to fly, and on her way down she called out to Merlin, Dumbledore, and Zeus. Her body made a loud squelching noise when she landed square on her arse. 

Once again, Angelina completely lost it. 

****  
 **Day 39**

Healer Dandridge studied Molly Weasley through the double-sided glass window disguised as a mirror. She stood over the soft white padded chair in which Angelina sat. Crying silently, the woman was trying with a great deal of difficulty to pull Angelina’s beautiful thick coarse hair into a French braid. 

“It’s alright,” Mrs. Weasley whispered. “We’ll get through it. We always do.” She leaned over to plant a firm kiss on top of Angelina’s head.

Not a moment later, her eyes flew open and her back straightened. Angelina simply stared ahead.

Dandridge’s eyes scanned the room, but saw nothing.

Finally, Mrs. Weasley relaxed and smiled, shaking her head. “It’s too still in here. Plays tricks with your mind. We’ll get you out of here soon.”

“Hello, Mrs. Weasley. Nice to see you again,” Dandridge offered as he walked into the room.  
She gave him a stiff smile. “Yes, well, hopefully you won’t have to see me again. Will she be staying much longer?”

“We honestly don’t know.”

Fresh tears formed in the older woman’s eyes and Dandridge forced himself to look on, quelling the urge to reach out and comfort her. 

“She’s a very special young lady,” Mrs. Weasley said. “When my son Fred died, we lost George too. It was as if a Dementor had moved in; all of the laughter was gone. But Angelina brought him back to us, and the laughter too. So you see, it’s very important she gets better. I can’t lose another son. Not again.” 

Her voice broke on the last and Dandridge swallowed back a lump in his throat. 

“We’ll do everything we can, Mrs. Weasley. I promise.”

****  
 **Day 47**

Patient Log

Name: Angelina Johnson  
Patient #:34  
Age: 22 years young  
Height: 5’9  
Weight: 162lbs  
Nationality: British  
Race/Ethnicity: Black  
Eye Color: Brown  
Hair Color: Dark Brown  
Blood Status: Pure-blood  
Curse or spell-damage?: None apparent  
Diagnosis: Manic with signs of hysteria

Healer Notes: 

Patient #34’s boyfriend, George Weasley, has ceased visitations. This appears to have had a negative impact on her condition. Her sanity is deteriorating. She is exhibiting longer, more dramatic periods of mania, marked by the same exhilarated laughter and uncontrolled displays of wandless magic. These magical outbursts have changed from harmless pranks to outright aggressive attacks that target hospital staff. For the time being, the patient has been placed in solitary observation, where she can do minimal damage. We have exhausted all recommended regimens to treat this condition and are waiting for Clearance 1 approval to extract the patient’s memories and/or conduct a Legilimency scan. 

If all goes well, I hope to be able to start memory retrieval by the end of the week.

Signed: Chief Mind Healer, Alex Dandridge  
Date: Saturday, July 22, 2000  
Time: 2:30pm

****  
 **Day 54**

Angelina had grown accustomed to the sudden bouts of wandless magic that exploded unannounced around her. The laughter that followed now came naturally. She’d even come to expect the mistrustful looks and passive aggressive retaliation from the staff. 

But what Angelina could not get used to, or accept, was the total abandonment. Her parents only visited once, and had not returned. Granted, it may have had something to do with the vicious food attack that forced them to flee from the ward. But that didn’t explain George’s absence. The porcelain vase thrown at his head hadn’t even come close to hitting him, she was sure. And really, he should have seen that one coming.

He hadn’t been back since. It’d been nearly a month, and nearly three weeks since Mrs. Weasley stopped dropping in as well. 

As Angelina sat bound to the comfy brown chair, staring into Dandridge’s impossibly blue eyes, her eyes began to blur with tears.

Healer Dandridge leaned forward eagerly. “Angelina, are you alright? You’re crying.”

The lights in the room flickered on and off for several seconds, and she giggled even as a single tear slid down her cheek.

“What is it? Are you unhappy? Do you miss your family?” Dandridge pressed. “Angelina?”

She gritted her teeth, and squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to speak.

“I−”

Dandridge clapped his hands, nodding enthusiastically. “Yes? Go on. ‘I’ what? Say it, you can say it….”

Angelina pushed forward against her invisible restraints, concentrating on her next word. But she was stuck on one syllable, too fearful to say much more.

“IIII−”

“Yes?” Dandridge pressed.

Just as Angelina’s tongue unlocked and her lips moved to say the next word, the Dandridge’s robes flew up, covering his face. 

She guffawed loudly as he struggled to pull his robes down, flapping his hands about his head like a drowning man. 

“Angelina!”

*****  
 **Day 60**

Dandridge raced into the Healer’s station still clutching the Ministry letter in his hand. He marched right up to the Healing Assistant, a mousy young intern named Tracy Miles, who was filing records.

“Tracy, please retrieve the Pensieve for me,” he said impatiently.

The waif brunette looked up in puzzlement. “The Pensieve, but we can’t use that. We need approval from−”

“The Ministry, yes, yes. I have it. For Patient #34,” Dandridge said, holding up the letter with official Ministry letterhead.

His heart was racing, and the woman seemed to take entirely too long to climb upon a stool and perform the complicated unlocking charm that opened the highest cabinet. 

Dandridge didn’t waste time with pleasantries once the Pensieve was in his hand. He rationalised not a moment could be wasted; the sooner he knew located the cause of Angelina’s mental defect, the sooner he could stop the rapid deterioration of her mind. 

But if he were really honest with himself, Dandridge was just dying to find out what was wrong with her. 

****  
 **Day 60**

She was back in the stuffy office with the comfy chair, without the magical binding. Dandridge’s pretty eyes were unusually bright with excitement. 

Angelina frowned in trepidation at the Pensieve in his hands. Her eyes scanned the room quickly as the hairs rose on the back of her neck. 

Healer Dandridge placed the smooth jade bowl squarely in the middle of the coffee table that usually served as a buffer between them. He withdrew his wand and walked around the table and towards Angelina like a hunter stalking his prey.

“Now Angelina, I want you to relax. You’re not restrained now, so you can stretch out your legs if you like. Just sit back and listen to my voice,” he said in a deep, soothing tone. Pulling up an adjacent chair, he took a seat beside her. “Breathe deeply.” 

He sounded calm, but the tremor in his hand betrayed him. “I want to help you. Please let me.”

Angelina’s entire body went stiff as she waited for the assault. Dandridge was getting much too close, and he was fully armed. Any minute now, some spontaneous display of magic would avert his plans. She waited for it, but nothing happened. Dandridge was still talking, drawing closer still, his wand close to her temple.

“Now, Angelina, I want you think about why you checked yourself in. When did it all start? Just relax, breathe, and remember for me. I’ll do the rest.”

Angelina began to relax, and her eyelids grew heavy as she felt herself slipping into the familiar past.

******

**_April 1998_ **

It’s easier to stare at the ground. No good can come from looking up. She can tell because there’s a lot of sniffling and ugly sobbing that sounds too much like people choking. The eulogy, sad songs, and poetry drag on and on. It’s all just empty words. None of it will bring him back. 

One great sob, louder than the others, rises from somewhere in front of her. Everything goes silent as the mourners still and listen. 

It’s obviously Mrs. Weasley. 

“Please stand,” Kingsley’s deep voice says. 

Angelina dares to lift her eyes and is greeted by the sight of the large, pale blue casket on display. Just beyond it, on the other side, she sees something that nearly stops her heart. It’s Fred. Only he isn’t smiling, he’s crying, and he’s much paler than usual. 

Her knees go weak and she feels as if she may faint, but then she remembers Fred is dead. The man she’s staring at is his brother. 

And even though Angelina knows she’s been staring at George for far too long, she can’t bring herself to rip her eyes away. She studies every single line and freckle, trying to mark the difference between him and memories of his brother. But there is so much of Fred in George, she can see none.

Finally, George lifts his eyes from his brother’s casket and catches hers. Angelina offers him the tiniest smile she can. Anything else would be inappropriate. 

*****

**_24 July 1998_ **

“George, please come out, you have a guest!” Mrs. Weasley begs, knocking on her son’s door, her desperate eyes set on Angelina.

“It’s alright, Mrs. Weasley, I can come back,” Angelina says, turning for the stairs.

Mrs. Weasley moves in fast, blocking Angelina’s path, her hands gripping the girl’s shoulders. “No, please. Stay for dinner. He always comes down for dinner, at least. Please…”

Angelina holds her breath, frozen by the desperation in the woman’s face.

They both turn quickly as George’s door opens. Angelina peers through the crack he’s made but doesn’t see him. 

She looks back at Mrs. Weasley who gives an encouraging nod. “Go on, dear. I’ll just be downstairs, making supper.”

Angelina stares at the door and carefully walks forward, like child sneaking up on a bird. 

“George?”

She peeks through the crack and sees nothing but a silhouette sitting on a bed by the window. It’s so dark in there.

“Come in or get out, but make up your mind,” he says.

She swallows and steps inside, shutting the door behind her.

*****

**_August 1998_ **

She arrives at his new cottage. Well, it’s not really new, she observes. The blue paint on the door is peeling, and the shutters could use a new coat of paint and straightening. The bottom wood panel step is broken, but somehow that’s perfect, considering its occupant.

Before she knocks, she goes through the mental rules.

Rule #1: Don’t mention his parents, especially his mother and that awful fight they had the night he moved out.

Rule #2: Don’t talk about Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes or how he sold it and used the money to move away from everyone he knew and loved.

Rule #3: Don’t ever, ever mention Fred unless he brings up the subject first.

Rule #4: Smile. No matter how snarky he gets. You have to show him you’re not going anywhere.

Rule #5: Things will get better, no matter what he says.

She knocks once, twice, three times before she hears the heavy thud of lazy footsteps descending down the stairs. There’s a pause, and she listens. When he doesn’t open the door, she knocks again.

Finally, the door creaks open. George squints against the sunlight hitting his face. He’s barefoot, shirtless, and much too pale.

He says nothing but his mouth is drawn in a frown. 

She smiles.

“Come in, then,” he mutters as he turns his back. 

****

**_September 1998_ **

Angelina rubs his back because he lays on his right side with his back to her a lot these days. He lays like that for most of the day really, for days on end. The only reason he gets up is to piss, and occasionally eat. Mostly she brings him food. The room reeks of body odor and old popcorn. She tries to clean whenever she comes over, but when she’s away, he doesn’t bathe or do cleaning spells, and he uses his wand to make popcorn in bed. 

She’s grown used to it, and lying beside him in the dark. George doesn’t like the light, he says it hurts his eyes, but Angelina knows it makes him think of Fred. 

And in this new cottage, everything is always dark. The walls are one shade purple too deep, and George’s wooden blinds are always closed. It doesn’t matter− Angelina isn’t here for the décor; she’s here for him. 

She pulls at him until he finally relents and turns over to rest on his back. She rises onto her knees beside him and pulls her shirt over her head, giving him full view of her breasts. George’s eyes casually wander from the ceiling to look at her. She smiles down at him. He sighs and his eyes return to the stucco tiles above.

Not the slightest bit deterred, Angelina scoots down until she’s lying on her stomach, her legs hanging off the bed, and her face close to his waist. Gently, she strokes his thigh, hoping to hear some sort of sign of approval. The only affirmation she gets is a brief twitch beneath his pants. Encouraged, she reaches in underneath his waistband, pulls out his mostly limp cock, and kisses it.

It hardens only slightly, but that only makes her more resolute. She bathes his entire length with her tongue, teasing, licking and sucking until he is semi-hard. His almost-erection gives her a thrill, and she sucks on earnestly until the salty taste of him fills her mouth and he exhales a long, shuddering breath. 

She smiles in self-satisfaction at her accomplishment until she hears him inhale again. It sounds like a soft muffled sob.

“George…”

“Just leave me alone, Angie,” he mumbles, throwing a pillow over his face. 

“No,” she says, sitting up on her knees again. “You can’t push me away. I won’t let you.”

“What do you want from me?” he asks bitterly. “You think if you stick around long enough, I’m gonna just snap out of it or something?”

“I know you’re hurting right now. We all are. We all loved him, too. But he would have wanted you to go on, to have a full life.”

George’s shakes the bed with his forced laughter. “What’s that even mean? A full life. You mean you want me to start telling jokes again, put on a stupid grin so I can make you feel better about _your_ miserable life. Sod off.”

She tries to remain calm even as her hand curls into a claw and she grips the sheets beneath them. Frustrated, she sits up properly and puts her shirt back on. 

She stares at him for several minutes before speaking. “You know what I want? I want you to try not giving up. Try to live. It won’t be easy, but you’re not alone. Let me help you. Just tell me what you need.”

George throws the pillow off his face and glares down at her, his eyes glittering in the dark. 

“I need my brother. Can you bring him back for me, Angie? ‘Cause if you can’t then there’s no point in you being here,” he says, turning back onto his side, his back to her..

His words hurt like a sucker punch, but she nods with new determination and climbs out of bed to leave.

*****

**_31 October 1998  
Midnight_ **

She’s been counting down the days until Samhain and now it’s time. Her nerves are frayed and she’s unusually jumpy. 

This has to be done right, and there have already been some complications. Sneaking into the Weasley crypt proves to be more difficult than she planned.

But she’s here now, and there’s no going back.

She stares at the concrete slot carved with Fred’s name and tragically short life span and raises her wand.

“Fred Weasley, _Tabula Rasa Per Capitar Non Sequitir Et Cetra!_ ”

Nothing happens, nothing moves. She clutches the wand in her hand so hard, its grooves are sure to leave a mark. Her eyes grow blurry and hot from unexpected tears. 

“Come on, you prat. Get up!”

She kicks at the base of the vault, grimacing at the pain that shoots through her shin. 

“Please…please come back.”

Desperation turns into resignation as the minutes go by, until finally, she turns to leave.

“Angie…” a small voice whispers.

She freezes, hope and fear colliding. In that moment she realises she didn’t really believe it could happen.

“Angie…” it says again.

Gathering all of her courage, Angelina slowly turns around and finds herself staring into familiar blue eyes, framed by Weasley-red hair. Everything else has been ruined.

She doesn’t even realise she’s screaming until a decomposing, grey-fleshed hand covers her mouth.

******

**_1 November 1998  
2am_ **

Angelina leads the thing out by the rarely used side entrance of the cemetery and prepares for a side-along, hoping it won’t fall apart before they arrive. It looks as fragile as a paper mache doll, but when she grabs its wrist, it grabs her waist possessively, like a man who is alive. 

Within minutes, they arrive outside George’s cottage. She knocks on the door, her heart in her throat, as she looks back to scan the deserted dirt road. Of course no one is coming, but it isn’t other people intruding that has Angelina worried. She needs to see someone living because something that used to be Fred is standing too quietly, too still behind her. 

“George please, it’s me Angelina. I need to talk to you,” she says loudly. “It’s urgent!”

She shivers and pushes down panic as the minutes go by and cold, stale breath blows on her neck.

When the door opens, she nearly jumps with relief. 

“George! I know this is mental, but I didn’t know what else to do. I thought that−”

Angelina stops talking because George isn’t listening. 

He’s staring past her, with a huge smile on his face. 

*****

**_1 December 1998_ **

It’s been a full month since she brought the thing back home. The difference in George is remarkable.

He showers, eats at the kitchen table with her, and constantly talks about buying back Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Mostly he talks to the thing that used to be Fred. He doesn’t seem bothered by the stench and skin shedding. Or that the thing hardly ever says anything but “George” and “Angie” and “No.”

It says “No” a lot, no matter what the question is. At first, Angelina thought it was some sort of leftover thought from Fred’s former consciousness, a word stuck on replay like a faulty wireless that can only transmit one station. But now she fears it isn’t stuck at all, that the thing is just unhappy— with her. 

Angelina tries not to think about that too much though. Instead she focuses on George. He actually smiles for her a lot now, and gives out hugs and kisses too.

It’s almost enough to make her forget what she’s done. But not quite enough. If she dares try, the thing that used to be Fred reminds her. All the glamours in the world couldn’t hide the resentment behind those eyes. 

“So get this, little brother,” George says, plopping down to sit next to the thing on the couch.

“Nooo,” the thing moans.

“Ah, _yes_ , you were born 2 minutes after me, so deal with it,” George teases.

It looks back at George vacantly, like it always does.

George chuckles and shakes his head, shoving a long piece of parchment towards its lap. 

“So this is what I’m thinking. We always made our best sales from love potions and gags that make people sick. What if we expand both lines? Here are some ideas I had about how to diversify our love potion line…”

George talks on in excitement, oblivious that the thing has turned its eyes and full attention to Angelina. Its pinky finger is hanging by a thin tendon. Angelina shudders even as she wills herself to stare back at it. 

“Nooooo,” it moans, blue eyes wide and accusing.

George laughs. “OK, alright, cool your pants. No need to get all huffy about it. So I guess you don’t like that one. How about this …”

*****

**_Early January 1999_ **

Angelina wakes with a start. Someone is tapping at her window. Snatching her wand from underneath her pillow, she throws off the duvet and makes her way across the room with stealth.

“ _Lumos._ ”

She gasps as two sets of familiar blue eyes show through the frost covered window.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, opening the window.

George climbs in carefully, so as not to hurt the thing strapped to his back. Once they’re inside, he unstraps it and gives it a cheerful pat.

“Nothing like a fly on a cold night, eh, Fred? Wakes you right up!” he says with a stupid grin on his face.

Angelina’s stomach rolls as she realises what George has done. It’s bad enough her transgression follows her in dreams, but now the thing is here, in her bedroom.

“George, what−”

“I figured you wouldn’t mind us dropping by. I know how much you value our company,” he says with a cheerful wink.

Angelina briefly closes her eyes, trying to remember the rules. She opens them quickly and gives him a small snort. “Is that right? So you came all the way over here by broom in the middle of the night out of sheer generosity, did you?”

George smiles. “You sound surprised.”

She shakes her head, trying to focus on the living, and not the dead thing standing in the corner. It’s easier just to turn her back, so she does.

“I was sleeping, you know,” she chastises as she makes her way back over to the bed.

George unzips his jacket and pulls off his gloves. “Perfect. We love sleepovers, don’t we Fred?”

Angelina cringes, and then remembers herself and gives them both a smile.

*****

**_26 January 1999  
Morning_ **

“I can’t do this anymore,” Angelina says, wrapping both arms around herself. “I can’t. It hates me.”

George shakes his head vehemently. “Angie, that’s ridiculous. Fred loves you.”

“That’s not Fred, George!” she nearly screams, forgetting herself, and the rules.

A dark shadow crosses George’s face. He steps back from her. 

Angelina leans in, quickly trying to repair any damage she may have done. “I’m— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I know it’s— I mean, _he’s_ Fred. It’s just that he… looks different, you know?”

“What do you mean?” George asks with bemusement. “The glamours you cast are bloody brilliant. Actually a slight improvement, if you ask me,” he says, throwing a sly smirk towards the thing on the couch.

“He smells, George,” she says in a low whisper, half-afraid it’s listening. “I don’t care how many cleansing charms you perform, I can still smell him. And he’s falling apart, right before our eyes. I’m tired of sweeping up skin and bits of him.”

“It’s not that bad, really,” George says with a dismissive hand wave. “Ginny used to shed hair all the time; in the sink, in the tub, in the−” 

“He doesn’t act like Fred at all!” Angelina blurts out, unable to contain her frustration. “He just sits there and stares at us, mostly me, and says ‘Noooo.’ It’s driving me barmy! He hates me, I know it. He hates what I’ve done.”

George shakes his head. “Angie, don’t you dare leave us. You’re a part of us now. I just got my brother back, I can’t lose my girl too.”

Angelina freezes, caught off-guard by unexpected relief and satisfaction. 

_His girl._

She’s been waiting for him to say it, but it’s never felt like the right time to talk about a “relationship”. It always seemed inappropriate, especially since she once dated his dead brother.

She quickly forgets their argument, and the thing in the corner on the couch, and throws her arms around George’s neck, kissing him deeply. 

“Don’t worry. I’m not leaving,” she promises. “I’m going to make this work.”

*****

**_26 January 1999  
Night_ **

She doesn’t sleep well. George insists ‘Fred’ sleep in the middle because ‘he’ likes to be surrounded by both of them. The thing appears to protest. Its head lolls to left, setting its eyes upon her. 

“Nooooo.”

Angelina forces a smile, and tries to breathe through her mouth to avoid the strong whiffs of the decay beneath the glamours. 

George throws a long arm over ‘Fred’ and caresses Angelina side with his fingertips. “Love you, Angie. And you too, Fred.”

“Love you, George… and you too, Fred,” she adds quickly to please George.

*****

**_27 January 1999  
Morning_ **

Angelina wakes up with a plan. She plants the idea in George’s head that he should replenish his supplies so he can start working on some of the new gags he’s been thinking about. 

He eagerly smiles and asks ‘Fred’ what he thinks of that. With silence, thankfully ‘Fred’ agrees.

Once George slips out of the cottage with the promise of returning with a good bottle of wine, Angelina runs upstairs. 

She squeaks and nearly trips on the top step when she sees the thing just standing there, leaning against the bedroom door, as if it’s been expecting her. 

“Listen, I know you don’t like me,” she says firmly. “But I love George, and I’m not leaving him. You understand?” 

“Noooo.”

She throws up her hands. “What is it? Are you upset with me for bringing you back? Do you want to return to the crypt?” she asks in desperation, hoping to get some type of affirmation.

“Nooooo.”

She shakes her head, tears prickling the corner of her eyes. “Look, I’m sorry, Fred. I’m sorry I did this to you. But I need you to stay and make George happy. And I need you to be yourself again... well, as much as possible. I hope you can forgive me. I don’t even know if this is going to work, but I don’t know what else to do.”

She inhales deeply, grips her wand firmly, and raises it _“Imperio!”_

The spell hits the thing with an unusual red glow. Its dead blue eyes go wide and brighten impossibly and then return to their normal hue. 

Angelina walks slowly towards it, still holding her wand like one prepared to duel.

“Now, listen to me carefully. You will act like Fred Weasley used to. That means you will laugh. You will smile. You will play silly little pranks and joke around with your brother, George. And you will talk like a normal person. Do you understand? Say ‘yes’ if you do.”

Angelina holds her breath as she stares back at the thing, until it looks down at her with a cheeky smile. 

“Sure. Whatever you say, Angie.” 

*****

**_27 January 1999  
Afternoon_ **

George is beyond elated when he arrives home and finds ‘Fred’ playing Exploding Snap. Angelina sighs in relief and runs to him. She doesn’t tell him that ‘Fred’ has been throwing the snaps at various parts of her body, yelling “Score! Direct hit!” whenever he makes his target. The snaps don’t hurt really, but they’re irritating as hell, and she’s beginning to wonder if this is just another demonstration of his disdain for what she’s done. 

“I can’t believe it, what did you do?” George asks Angelina.

She shrugs. “He just…started playing. He’s talking too.”

George drops the bags by the door and walks over to his brother. “Fred?”

“Who else could it be? I certainly don’t look like Aunt Muriel,” ‘Fred’ says with a bemused smile.

George rushes to his brother, holding him tight.

‘Fred’ rolls his eyes in fake irritation as he smiles over George’s shoulder at Angelina. “Geez, George, you act as if I died or something.”

George lets out a hearty laugh, while Angelina clutches her chest and forces a smile.

****

**_2 February 1999_ **

She’s ecstatic when George asks her to move in, and feels some measure of pride at how far they’ve come.

That is, until the night George and ‘Fred’ want to do more than just sleep in their bed.

They always sleep together. All three of them, in the same bed. George insists, and ‘Fred’ thinks it’s bloody good fun. Of course he does, because it disturbs Angelina, and she knows he knows that.

It comes as no real surprise when ‘Fred’ suggests they take things further even though it’s George who makes the proposition. 

Angelina knows the threesome is ‘Fred’s idea because as George broaches the subject, Fred just sits behind him with that annoying sneaky smirk on his lips. He’s still pulling pranks, but this one is a doozy.

Would she dare fuck two brothers at once, especially if one of them is sort of dead?

“I just feel like we’re ready to take this to the next level, Angie,” George is saying. “I love you, and Fred loves you, too.”

“Yeah, where would I be without you?” Fred chimes in with an impish smile and a wink. 

“And you love us too, so why the hell not?” George asks. 

“So what do you say, Angie? Think you can handle the both of us?” Fred asks with a dare in his eyes. 

For one brief second, Angelina sets her jaw and stares back at him in contempt. 

Oh yes, it’s now official, she hates him. But she loves George, and that’s what all of this was for in the first place. It’s too late for regrets, and putting an end to it is out of the question. 

Angelina tries not to think of what it may mean for her humanity to invite a dead man to fuck her. 

Instead, she quirks an eyebrow and offers a devious smirk. “I think the real question is − will you two be able to handle me?” 

*****

**_Mid-February 1999_ **

Angelina wakes with a start, and even though she’s not surprised to see him there, standing over her, her body reacts in shock. 

She screams and jumps, waking up George. He laughs and shakes his head, rubbing the sleep out of his eye to look at his brother. 

“That never gets old! Bloody hilarious, really Just when Angie thinks you’ve given up on it, you go do it again!”

‘Fred’ chuckles and gives them both a knowing wink. Angelina scowls, thinking of her wand and how many spells exist that can rid her of him.

It is the fourth night in a row she’s been awakened by ‘Fred’ standing over her in bed. He always sniggers when she screams and wakes up George. 

It wasn’t funny the first time, and it’s definitely not funny now. In the still quiet moments, after George rolls over, she and ‘Fred’ wage a fierce staring war. 

He always wins. His bright blue eyes, wide and unflinching, can mock her for hours. Because they’re dead.

“It’s not funny. Stop it,” she whispers fiercely.

He chuckles softly. “Stop what, exactly?”

“Stop being a git,” she grits out as quietly as possible.

‘Fred’ tilts his head, a smug smirk plastered on his glamoured-smooth lips. “I don’t understand. I was just having a laugh. Do you really want me to stop? Cause I can.” 

He dead-pan expression eliminates any guessing about the meaning of his words.

“No. You wouldn’t be Fred if you didn’t joke around,” Angelina says dryly. “George’s right — it’s really hilarious.” 

*****

**_Late February 1999_ **

Angelina tries not to hurl as her vision blurs from the spinning and her feet leave the floor. She’s moving too fast, and barely catches a glimpse of George sitting in the corner. He keeps time with rhythmic hand claps.

The fresh painted periwinkle blue walls are nothing compared to the sky blue eyes holding her captive. Those eyes have more life in them now than she ever remembered. Her own eyes feel frozen wide as they begin to cloud with tears. 

From the corner comes a cat call and whistle. “You still got it, bro!” George says. “Doesn’t he, Angie?”

Angelina shakes her head furiously. “No…please…stop.”

The spinning slows and the hand holding her waist squeezes. 

“Is my dancing that bad?” ‘Fred’ asks with a look of mock apprehension. 

Angelina looks down at his feet, trying to muster up a smile for him, but instead, she feels the rise of a silent sob in her chest.

“Ah, so it is my dancing. Would you rather me sing a tune, instead? Mum says I have a rather lovely singing voice,” Fred says. 

George snorts. “You were 6 when she said that!”

Fred shrugs, and Angelina tries to pull away but his grip is tight. He seems intent upon forcing her to look at him, as usual.

There is a painfully long pause as they stand there in the middle of the room, staring at each other, his scent drifting in Angelina’s nostrils every time he exhales his decaying breath. 

The mounting tears are winning the fight over her efforts to smile, and she closes her eyes to prevent them from falling. 

A large gentle hand covers her and ‘Fred’s’ clasped hands, and she feels a firm, warm body close in behind her. 

“Smile, Angie,” George whispers against her neck. “You know how he gets when you don’t.”

Angelina forces herself to look into unnaturally still blue eyes, and swallows hard.

‘Fred’ is grinning. “Do you really want me to stop now?”

Angelina narrows her eyes because yes, she wants him to stop. Stop existing.

Aware of George’s eyes on her, she tries to focus on the memory of the fun she and Fred shared the night of the Yule Ball, but it only underscores their current grim reality. 

Which is why ‘Fred’ is doing it, she decides. She’s convinced that he is trying to mentally torture her, as he so often does now. But Angelina is no puppet. She is a Gryffindor, and she will not submit to torture willingly, even if she had a hand in creating it. 

She now understands she must undo what she’s done. 

Decisive about her new course of action, she grins back at ‘Fred’. “Your dancing isn’t so bad, Weasley, but we’d move much better if you stopped stepping on my toes.”

******

**_9 March 1999  
Morning_ **

She acts the part of the perfect homemaker, fixing George his toast, jam, and tea, while carrying on conversation and laughing at ‘Fred’s’ prank of burying a dead rat in the sugar bowl. 

But when George leaves the house to fix up the new shop he’s purchased for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Angelina has her wand at the ready.

‘Fred’ looks prepared for her, hiding behind the chair in the kitchen. When she makes her way around the table, he holds the chair up in front of him defensively.

“Is this a new game of tag?” he asks coyly. “Not sure I like it. How about a game of Exploding Snap instead?”

“No more games,” Angelina says in a steely tone. “No more of anything for you.”

‘Fred’ slowly lowers the chair, his characteristic grin faltering. “What about George? He won’t like it if you get rid of me. I’m the life of the party.”

“You used to be,” Angelina whispers, hating the rise of sadness constricting her chest, making it hurt. “But now, you’re…you’re some sort of cruel imitation of a really great man. I was a fool to think I could bring him back.”

“I am back, you daft witch. It’s me, Fred,” he says with a toothy grin.

“No, you’re nothing like him, not really.” 

‘Fred’ grin quickly turns upside down. “That’s not really my fault. Didn’t your Mum teach you not to do dark magic on dead things? It never works out the way you want it to.”

Angelina irritation spikes, she’s tired of this dead thing mocking her. “No, she never taught me that, but I understand now. I’ll just fix my mistake.”

Fred waves one long finger at her. “Did you hear what I just said, woman? You _can’t_ do magic on me and predict the outcome. If you try to make me disappear, I promise, you’ll regret it.”

Angelina pauses, considering his advice, but then remembers what she’s talking to: an Inferi prankster. He’s lying. She brought him back once, so of course she can get rid of him

She raises her wand, “Fred is dead. I don’t know who you are, but you don’t belong here. _Disgregatio_!”

The red spell hits ‘Fred’s body, and its blue eyes stretch wide as saucers and its mouth freezes in a perfect “O”. The glamours she previously cast run down ‘Fred’s face like fresh paint washing away in the rain, leaving patches of skin clinging to milk white bone. Within seconds, it all crumbles in on itself, disappearing into the clothing George has given it.

Angelina stares at the ash-covered pile of clothing on the floor, and for first the time in months, she genuinely smiles.

******  
 ** _9 March 1999  
Afternoon_**

When George arrives home, she wastes no time in telling him. “He’s gone. I’m sorry, George.”

George ignores her and searches each room in his split-level cottage. He looks in all of the closets and under the beds and even the kitchen sink. “No way. He’s just putting us on. You know how he is. We’ll wait him out. Good one, Fred! But I’m not falling for it!”

Standing in the middle of the living room, Angelina wrings her hands, watching him. It will be difficult once he discovers Fred really is gone, but she’s convinced, like before, she can get him through it. 

They eat dinner in silence. George finishes his meal quickly, and then goes out back to search for his brother. When he comes back in, Angelina rises and goes to him.

“George, please, listen to me. I think Fred is really gone, for good. He…he really wasn’t supposed to be here, not like he was.”

George shakes his head and kisses her forehead. “You really don’t know my brother, do you? Fred is the master of practical jokes. He’s still around. I promise you.”

******

**_9 March 1999  
Night_ **

Angelina wakes with a start. The room is completely empty, save her and George, but she senses something. 

She looks all around but finds no trace of a glamoured-pale face, sinister smile, or dead blue eyes. Only familiar darkness.

Still, she sits and listens. As the minutes tick by, she realises she’s being foolish and prepares to lie down again. 

“Boo!” whispers a voice much too familiar.

Angelina jumps, a scream lodged in her throat. 

She draws the duvet closer as the silence in the room is broken by ominous chuckling. 

“Fred?” George croaks, rising from his sleep to rub his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Where are you?” 

“Oh, I’m around,” says the voice, thick with amusement.

Angelina swallows. “Why can’t we see you?”

“Because I’m invisible now.”

George sits up fully, frowning. “Why? What happened?”

“Well, my body sorta fell apart. Funny, that. I was just standing in the kitchen and I just imploded.”

“Oh, no!” George cries. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Angelina says abruptly, her heart racing. “We’re just glad you’re back.” 

“Back? I never really left.” There’s a smile in his words, Angelina can just picture it. 

“The undead don’t really need a body.”

George claps. “Ha. Nice. So you get to hang about forever?”

‘Fred’ responds with affable laughter. It sounds like it’s hovering over them. Angelina draw the duvet even closer as she shivers.

“That’s right, George. I’m not going anywhere.”

*****

**_1 April 1999_ **

It’s been nearly a year since George has seen his family. Angelina knows he’s still raw about the row he and his Mum had when he moved out. Still, Mrs. Weasley sends owls to Angelina’s parents’ home every week, since George has found a place the Weasley clock cannot locate. The letters all end the same way: _‘Please drop by sometime, and bring George if you can.’_

Finally, after months of prodding, George gave in, and today is their first time out of the house together—with ‘Fred’.

George refused to go unless ‘Fred’ joined them. It’s _their_ birthday after all, and his Mum has already told Angelina to expect a full family gathering.

They Apparate together to the end of the pathway leading up to The Burrow. Angelina is a ball of nerves, and can’t seem to focus on any one thing; her eyes are everywhere.

“Will you stop looking about like that? You’re making me nervous,” George jokes. 

She tries to focus ahead, and not look to her right, where ‘Fred’ is supposed to be. She has her doubts about whether he is still there anyway; he never stays put for long.

When they arrive at the Burrow, they’re greeted like long lost children. Mrs. Weasley nearly shouts when she opens the door and pulls George into a fierce hug.

“Oh, George! Happy Birthday, darling!”

“Mum, I can’t breathe,” George gasps.

Mrs. Weasley laughs and releases him, slapping his arm. Before he can move, Mr. Weasley envelopes him into a huge bear hug. 

Angelina scans the area around them for clues for where ‘Fred’ is, but doesn’t get a chance to figure it out because Mrs. Weasley is ushering her inside. 

“Angelina, dear, so glad to see you!” she exclaims, giving her a firm hug. “I knew you’d bring him back to us,” she whispers in her ear. 

When she finally releases her, she gives both George and Angelina an appreciative smile. “Right, then, well don’t just stand there, take off your coats and get comfortable. You’ve come just in time to blow out the candles!”

****

**_July 1999_ **

It isn’t even funny, really. But they all laugh anyway, tickled by the nostalgia the prank inspires more than anything. 

“That’s enough!” Molly admonishes above the giggles that spread infectiously at the Weasley dinner table. 

George Weasley seems genuinely bewildered as he stares back at his mother.

But Mrs. Weasley isn’t having it. She gives her son a stern scowl. “George, I know you switched out the salt and pepper shakers for sneezing powder, _again._ I’m glad you’re feeling better, but I have to say, you are a grown man now. Please act like one!” 

George throws up his hands in surrender. “Honestly, Mum, it wasn’t me.”

“Oh sure, it never is, is it?” Molly rolls her eyes and gives Angelina a small smile. “I don’t know how you do it, dear…” she sighs before retreating into the kitchen. 

George gives Angelina a sly smirk that soon breaks into a muffled snigger. To keep ‘Fred’ from causing further mischief, Angelina sniggers with him.

The entire table watches them in adoration. 

It’s obvious the Weasleys are tremendously grateful for their presence, and spend much of their visitation gushing over them.

They all love Angelina, now more than ever. She tries to dwell on this to keep darker musings at bay. 

For the most part, it works. At least for a little while.

****

**_September 1999_ **

She kisses George goodbye as she hands him a carefully made bagged lunch to see him off.

“Oops, forgot my hat,” she hears George say from the top of the stairs. 

She whirls around. Although she didn’t hear the pop of Apparition, but she clearly hears George’s voice at the top of the stairs. 

“Perhaps I left it on purpose so I could steal another kiss,” he chuckles from somewhere upstairs. 

She smiles in spite of herself, shaking her head as she climbs up the stairs to find him. 

“I’ll give you another kiss, alright,” she says. 

“Back here, Angie…”

A flash of annoyance has her pursing her lips. “Stop playing around. The shop is supposed to be open by now; you don’t want to earn a bad reputation. George?”

She ventures further down the hall and just before she reaches the linen closet, its door swings wide open. 

“Boo!”

Angelina nearly jumps out of her skin. Especially when she looks into the closet and sees that it’s empty.

“Fred!” she calls, her eyes searching everywhere and nowhere at once. “That’s not funny, you know!”

“Sure it is,” says ‘Fred’, his voice suddenly behind her. “Jesus, Angie, you’ve been seeing my brother for over a year now and you still don't know the difference between his voice and mine? Perhaps you and I should talk more often.”

Angelina’s eyes harden as she spins on her heels. “Leave me alone!”

‘Fred’ giggles. “I can’t, you see, you’ve made that rather difficult, cursing me and all.” 

“I’ll end it then,” she says, raising her wand and spinning in a slow circle to make sure the spell hits him. _“Finite Incantatem!”_

“Hmm, doesn’t seem to be working. Pity that. I reckon I’m doomed to spend the rest of my unnatural new life making you laugh, or trying to.”

Angelina looks around, searching for an escape. But there is none. Now that ‘Fred’ is free from his body, he can follow her anywhere, anytime. 

She drops her wand, falls against the wall, and slides down to the floor. The urge to cry is strong, but she’s out of tears, so she laughs instead.

******

**_31 October 1999_ **

Noises echo in the darkness, wrapping around Angelina like a cold blanket. She shudders, sitting up as straight as a board and listening to the whispers and laughter drifting up from the living room. Alone in their bed, not sure of what ‘Fred’ is plotting now, she finds she cannot move.

The laughter dies, and she leans forward, listening. She stops breathing entirely as heavy footsteps thump up the stairs.

“Shhh, you’re way too loud, mate,” she hears a voice say.

Angelina grips the duvet, her eyes wide with anticipation. The door creaks open, and she bites her tongue for fear of making things worse.

“Oh, you’re up!” George says. “ _Lumos._ ”

He has a mischievous smirk on his handsome face as he walks in. Angelina’s eyes catch his for a moment, but then quickly dart to the door behind him.

George turns around as if a thief may have snuck up on him. “What are you looking at?”

She swallows. “I heard you talking and laughing. He’s behind you, isn’t he?”

George drops his eyes, and waits a moment as if he had forgotten something. The door slams shut, and Angelina flinches.

George sniggers as he makes his way over to the bed. “Blimey, woman, what’s crawled up your arse? Why are you so jumpy?”

She watches him climb under the covers. The fear and sense of danger rapidly fading, giving way to confusion and shame. She should be used to this by now. Why is she more unnerved than ever? 

Shaking her head, she silently laughs at her own silliness. She moves in to give George a kiss and apology when something heavy pounces on the bed. 

Angelina screams and quickly pulls her legs to her body, wrapping her arms around them as if she will be bitten. Her eyes dart from the end of the bed to George, who simply shakes his head.

“It’s our anniversary,” a voice sings out of tune. “Come celebrate another year for us, love.” The voice trails off and begins to hum.

Angelina searches George’s face, looking for some hint of what they are up to, but he’s staring ahead at nothing with a conspiratorial grin . 

“Angie, a year ago today you brought Fred home. It’s his anniversary! I think it’s made him a bit randy. We were hoping you’d be up for a kinky little game.”

****

**_February 2000_ **

Her lips twitch out of habit now. Or perhaps in anticipation. Regardless, she’s always ready to laugh now. He’s always nicer when she laughs, a least a little bit. But waiting for him to make her laugh is the worst. She never knows when or how he will do it.

Now that the rest of the Weasleys have all left their cottage, Angelina has nothing to distract her while she waits, so she sweeps the kitchen floor to occupy her thoughts. 

Her eyes are cast downward, but she peripherally scans the room like a rabbit scouting for a predator. When the air turns static, her stomach tightens and fresh goose bumps break along her arm. 

She turns swiftly on her heel, heart hammering in her chest, but nothing is there. Or is it? 

“Want to watch something on the ol’ Muggle telly?” George calls out from the living room. 

Angelina’s steel grip on the broom handle relaxes a little. 

“Yeah, what’s on, anyway?” she calls back, trying to infuse cheer into her voice. 

“Come in here and see for yourself,” George insists.

She almost smiles on her own this time. Perhaps after a day of pranks at the family gathering, ‘Fred’ will give her a night off. 

It happens, sometimes. 

“So, it’s special time with George, eh?” an angry whisper hisses in her ear.

Angelina tries to swallow, but the lump in her throat is so thick it threatens to choke her. It nearly does when a sharp poke and tickling fingers attack her right side. 

The giggles spill out without warning, and she can’t stop them. The tickling continues, and try as she might to bat the invisible hands away, they continue to reach under her arm pit and climb down her spine.

She’s falls to the floor, holding her sides, trying with all her might to push the hands away. But they are strong, and she can hardly catch her breath.

“What’s so funny in there?” calls George with now familiar jealousy lacing his words.

“That’ll teach you. I’m the one who made you laugh first. You’d best remember that,” Fred says in a very unfunny voice. When she looks up at thin air in dread of what he’ll do next, he sniggers. “I’m just joking, woman. Lighten up, will ya?”

*****

Angelina’s eyes popped open as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over her. It felt like a slap in the face to emerge from the past and find herself in the uncomfortable present. The pressure of the tip of the wand left her temple, and she watched as Healer Dandridge put the last of her memories in a long, clear vial. 

He gave her a brief, satisfied smile, and his bright eyes quickly surveyed the contents. “That should do it,” he said, making his way over to the Pensieve on the coffee table. 

Her nails dug deep into the sides of the chair as she watched him pour the contents of the vial into it. 

She inhaled sharply as he dipped his head in to get a glimpse of her fucked up life.

After several minutes, Dandridge pulled back, his eyes glazed over, and his face stark white. 

“What did you do, Angelina?” he whispered accusingly. 

She licked her lips and averted her eyes to the Pensieve. 

“What did you do?” he demanded in a more stern tone. 

Refusing to meet his damning glare, Angelina looked up and stared past him to her favorite spot on the ugly honeydew green walls.

There was a bit of rustling and then he blocked her vision, standing before her with a quill and parchment in one hand, and his wand in the other. 

“Can you tell me?” he asked in a much softer tone.

She shook her head slowly. 

He sighed, taking a seat beside her once more. 

He offered her the quill and parchment, holding it out for her to take. Angelina stared at it for a moment before accepting it.

“I want you to draw something for me. Alright?” he asked.

She nodded slowly.

“Draw a picture of this room for me,” he said in a shaky low voice bordering on a whisper. 

His eyes flittered from hers to the area around them and his anxiety was palpable as she drew long lines and circles with the quill. When she was done, she handed him the parchment. 

Dandridge swallowed visibly and pointed at the each of the three stick figures in the picture.

“You. Me. And…Fred?”

Before Angelina could respond, Dandridge’s chair was pulled out from beneath him. He landed roughly on the floor just as the jar of multi-coloured marbles on his desk tipped over. One by one, the marbles flew at his face, pelting him so hard he yelped out in pain. As he held up his hands defensively to protect his head, his wand slipping from his fingers. But it didn’t drop, it floated up as if levitated, just out of his reach. 

“Please make it stop, Angelina!” Dandridge demanded, still covering his eyes from the onslaught of marbles.

Angelina laughed and watched in fascination as the attack continued. When Dandridge started to really cry, the effect was sobering.

She stopped laughing as she recalled why she had started laughing in the first place. Over the last year, she had learned to laugh for two reasons: to appease Fred; and to hold onto her sanity. She had failed to achieve either. 

“It won’t stop, it never does,” said Angelina.

Dandridge cried out once more as the stapler flew from his desk and hit him in the mouth, splitting his lip. 

“Please, I’ll let you out! I’ll sign the release papers! Just tell it to leave me alone!”

The marbles stopped pelting Dandridge and his wand fell to the floor as an eerie silence fell over the room. 

Dandridge dropped his hands and looked around as if expecting another attack. Quickly he grabbed his wand, scrambled to his feet, and bolted for the door. 

Angelina clasped her hands in her lap, unsure of what to feel. When Dandridge came back, he brought the old backpack she had checked in with, her wand was sticking out of it. He wasted no time pouring the memories from the Pensieve back into the glass vial. He offered it to her and quickly stepped back to put distance between them, his eyes were full of condemnation and something else. Fear, she thought. 

“You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?” he asked.

Angelina gave him a small sad smile. “Actually, I do. Every day it reminds me.” 

Dandridge scowled. “I could call The Ministry, you know! Have the Aurors take you in for using dark magic, desecrating a dead body and…doing all sorts of ungodly things with it."

Angelina winced. "Please, don't."

"Why didn't you tell me this before? Why have you been acting like a deranged lunatic?"

"I can't really talk about it. Every time I'd try, he'd start up again. And it always leaves me laughing. I have to laugh, you see. If I don't, he's ten times worse."

Dandrige studied her for several moments and then shook his head. "What you've done...its wrong. Very, very wrong. But, I won't call the Aurors. I think the consequences of your actions are worse than Azkaban. You’ve made your own prison.”

Angelina chewed on her bottom lip, trying to quell rising desperation. “So you can’t help me, then?”

“Is that why you checked in? You thought you could get away from it?” Dandridge asked.

Angelina nodded. “Yeah, I know it sounds mental, but I’ve run out of ideas. Not that my ideas were very good to begin with, eh?” She tittered and it sounded manic even to her own ears. “I was hoping that maybe if I came here, Healers who specialise in spell damage and curses could help me get rid of it.”

They both jumped as a wicked cackle filled the room.

Dandridge shook his head. “I’m sorry. We can’t help you. Now, here’s your wand and your things. I’ve signed your papers; no one will stop you or question your release… unless you come back here. I don’t ever, _ever_ want to see you near my ward, or this hospital, again. Please leave.” 

He opened the door, his eyes still measuring the room cautiously. 

Angelina stayed in the chair, staring at the open door as she weighed her options.

“Get up, Angie,” ‘Fred’s voice said. “It’s time to go home now.”

“Please leave me alone,” she begged quietly, her eyes stuck on Dandridge, who was now visibly trembling.

“You know I can’t do that,” ‘Fred’s voice said. “You told me I couldn’t go back, remember? Now let’s go home and cheer old Georgie up.”

Angelina wiped her eyes, put on her backpack, and stood up. Dandridge shrank back against the door, staring at her with apprehension as she approached. She stopped at the door and gave him a warm smile.

“He’s a real riot, that one,” she said with a small chuckle as she walked out. “Come on, then, Fred. Let’s go home.”


End file.
